Unseen
Preparation
Anthology
The Pearson Edexcel GCSE (9-1)
English Language Unseen Preparation Anthology
can be used to prepare for your assessment, alongside any
other appropriate materials
Unseen Preparation
Anthology
The Pearson Edexcel GCSE (9-1) English Language
Unseen Preparation Anthology can be used to prepare for
your assessment, alongside any other appropriate materials
Published by Pearson Education Limited, a company incorporated in England and Wales, having its
registered office at Edinburgh Gate, Harlow, Essex, CM20 2JE. Registered company number: 872828
Edexcel is a registered trade mark of Edexcel Limited
© Pearson Education Limited 2014
First published 2014
17 16 15 14
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781446913475
Copyright notice
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means (including
photocopying or storing it in any medium by electronic means and whether or not transiently or incidentally
to some other use of this publication) without the written permission of the copyright owner, except in
accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 or under the terms of a
licence issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Saffron House, 6–10 Kirby Street, London, EC1N 8TS
(www.cla.co.uk). Applications for the copyright owner’s written permission should be addressed to the
publisher.
See page 44 for acknowledgements.
Contents
Introduction5
A: 19th-century Fiction
1
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain, 1876
6
2
Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy, 1873–77
8
3
20,000 Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne, 1870
10
4
Castle Rackrent by Maria Edgeworth, 1800
12
5
David Copperfield by Charles Dickens, 1850
14
6
Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen, 1817
16
7
Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson, 1883
18
8
Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë, 1847
20
9
The Invisible Man by H. G. Wells, 1897
22
B: 20th- and 21st-century Non-fiction and Literary Non-fiction
1 Learning:
20th century: Kurt Vonnegut – letter to his daughter, Nanette, 1972
21st century: The Guardian – ‘Children are robbed of the right to education worldwide – but we can help’, 2014
24
25
2 Winning and Losing:
20th century: Tony Blair – ‘Leader’s speech, Brighton, 1997’
26
21st century: Andre Agassi – Open, 2009
27
3 Exotic Travel:
20th century: Bill Bryson – Notes from a Small Island, 1995
28
21st century: Tatler magazine – ‘Hearts beat Aswan’, 2012
29
4 Danger:
20th century: Joe Simpson – Touching the Void, 1988
30
21st century: Independent – ‘Nemesis Sub-Terra: Are you feeling scared yet?’, 2012
31
5 Imprisonment:
20th century: Brian Keenan – An Evil Cradling, 1991
34
21st century: Sunday Times magazine – ‘Can we live without modern technology?’, 2013
35
6 The Brain:
20th century: Guy Claxton – Hare Brain, Tortoise Mind, 1997
36
21st century: New Scientist – ‘Short attention span’, 2014
37
7 Challenges:
20th century: Jean-Dominique Bauby – The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly, 1997
38
21st century: Roy Lilley – Dealing with Difficult People, 2002
39
8 Tradition:
20th century: J. R. R. Tolkien – letter to his sons, 1925
40
21st century: The Telegraph – ‘The battle to own Father Christmas’, 2013
41
Acknowledgements44
Introduction
The purpose of this anthology is to help you prepare for Section One of Paper One and Paper
Two of the Pearson Edexcel Level 1/Level 2 GCSE (9-1) in English Language.
The first section of this anthology contains nine extracts from a variety of 19th-century fiction
texts. These extracts are all approximately 650 words in length to reflect the length of the
extract in each examination and have a short introduction to put the extract into context.
The second section of the anthology contains eight themes with two texts for each theme.
These non-fiction and literary non-fiction texts are taken from the 20th and 21st centuries. The
majority are between 350 and 450 words long. Some texts, however, are longer than this to
stretch and challenge your students. These can be split into sections or taught as a whole.
The texts in this anthology are provided to complement your current teaching materials and to
guide your text choices for preparation for the examination.
These texts will NOT appear in the examination.
5
A:19th-century Fiction
1
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain, 1876
In this extract from Chapter 18, Becky Thatcher notices that Tom Sawyer, who had
previously shown an interest in her, is now showing an interest in another girl.
5
Then she observed that now Tom was talking more particularly to
Amy Lawrence than to anyone else. She felt a sharp pang and grew
disturbed and uneasy at once. She tried to go away, but her feet were
treacherous, and carried her to the group instead. She said to a girl
almost at Tom’s elbow—with sham vivacity:
“Why, Mary Austin! you bad girl, why didn’t you come to Sundayschool?”
“I did come—didn’t you see me?”
“Why, no! Did you? Where did you sit?”
10
“I was in Miss Peters’ class, where I always go. I saw you.”
“Did you? Why, it’s funny I didn’t see you. I wanted to tell you
about the picnic.”
“Oh, that’s jolly. Who’s going to give it?”
“My ma’s going to let me have one.”
15
“Oh, goody; I hope she’ll let me come.”
“Well, she will. The picnic’s for me. She’ll let anybody come that I
want, and I want you.”
“That’s ever so nice. When is it going to be?”
“By and by. Maybe about vacation.”
20
“Oh, won’t it be fun! You going to have all the girls and boys?”
“Yes, every one that’s friends to me—or wants to be”; and she glanced
ever so furtively at Tom, but he talked right along to Amy Lawrence
about the terrible storm on the island, and how the lightning tore the
great sycamore tree “all to flinders” while he was “standing within
25 three feet of it.”
“Oh, may I come?” said Grace Miller.
“Yes.”
“And me?” said Sally Rogers.
“Yes.”
30
“And me, too?” said Susy Harper. “And Joe?”
“Yes.”
6
A: 19th-century Fiction
And so on, with clapping of joyful hands till all the group had
begged for invitations but Tom and Amy. Then Tom turned coolly
away, still talking, and took Amy with him. Becky’s lips trembled and
35 the tears came to her eyes; she hid these signs with a forced gaiety
and went on chattering, but the life had gone out of the picnic now,
and out of everything else; she got away as soon as she could and hid
herself and had what her sex call “a good cry.” Then she sat moody,
with wounded pride, till the bell rang. She roused up, now, with a
40 vindictive cast in her eye, and gave her plaited tails a shake and said
she knew what she’d do.
45
50
55
60
At recess Tom continued his flirtation with Amy with jubilant selfsatisfaction. And he kept drifting about to find Becky and lacerate
her with the performance. At last he spied her, but there was a sudden
falling of his mercury. She was sitting cosily on a little bench behind
the schoolhouse looking at a picture-book with Alfred Temple—and
so absorbed were they, and their heads so close together over the
book, that they did not seem to be conscious of anything in the
world besides. Jealousy ran red-hot through Tom’s veins. He began
to hate himself for throwing away the chance Becky had offered for
a reconciliation. He called himself a fool, and all the hard names
he could think of. He wanted to cry with vexation. Amy chatted
happily along, as they walked, for her heart was singing, but Tom’s
tongue had lost its function. He did not hear what Amy was saying,
and whenever she paused expectantly he could only stammer an
awkward assent, which was as often misplaced as otherwise. He kept
drifting to the rear of the schoolhouse, again and again, to sear his
eyeballs with the hateful spectacle there. He could not help it. And
it maddened him to see, as he thought he saw, that Becky Thatcher
never once suspected that he was even in the land of the living. But
she did see, nevertheless; and she knew she was winning her fight,
too, and was glad to see him suffer as she had suffered.
Glossary
sham vivacity pretend liveliness
recess an American word for break
lacerate cut
vexation anger
7
A: 19th-century Fiction
2
Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy, 1873–77
In this extract from Part One, Chapter 13, Kitty, who is a princess, is preparing to have
dinner with two men, Vronsky and Levin.
A
5
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25
30
8
fter dinner, and till the beginning of the evening,
Kitty was feeling a sensation akin to the sensation
of a young man before a battle. Her heart throbbed
violently, and her thoughts would not rest on anything.
She felt that this evening, when they would both
meet for the first time, would be a turning-point in her
life. And she was continually picturing them to herself,
at one moment each separately, and then both together.
When she mused on the past, she dwelt with pleasure,
with tenderness, on the memories of her relations with
Levin. The memories of childhood and of Levin’s
friendship with her dead brother gave a special poetic
charm to her relations with him. His love for her, of
which she felt certain, was flattering and delightful
to her; and it was pleasant for her to think of Levin.
In her memories of Vronsky there always entered a
certain element of awkwardness, though he was in the
highest degree well-bred and at ease, as though there
were some false note – not in Vronsky, he was very
simple and nice, but in herself, while with Levin she
felt herself perfectly simple and clear. But, on the other
hand, directly she thought of the future with Vronsky,
there arose before her a perspective of brilliant
happiness; with Levin the future seemed misty.
When she went upstairs to dress, and looked into the
looking-glass, she noticed with joy that it was one of
her good days, and that she was in complete possession
of all her forces, – she needed this so for what lay before
her: she was conscious of external composure and free
grace in her movements.
At half-past seven she had only just gone down into
the drawing-room, when the footman announced,
‘Konstantin Dmitrievitch Levin.’ The princess was
A: 19th-century Fiction
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65
70
still in her room, and the prince had not come in. ‘So
it is to be,’ thought Kitty, and all the blood seemed to
rush to her heart. She was horrified at her paleness, as
she glanced into the looking-glass. At that moment she
knew beyond doubt that he had come early on purpose
to find her alone and to make her an offer. And only
then for the first time the whole thing presented itself
in a new, different aspect; only then she realised that
the question did not affect her only – with whom she
would be happy, and whom she loved – but that she
would have that moment to wound a man whom she
liked. And to wound him cruelly. What for? Because
he, dear fellow, loved her, was in love with her. But
there was no help for it, so it must be, so it would have
to be.
‘My God! shall I myself really have to say it to him?’
she thought. ‘Can I tell him I don’t love him? That will
be a lie. What am I to say to him? That I love someone
else? No, that’s impossible. I’m going away, I’m going
away.’
She had reached the door, when she heard his step.
‘No! it’s not honest. What have I to be afraid of? I have
done nothing wrong. What is to be, will be! I’ll tell the
truth. And with him one can’t be ill at ease. Here he
is,’ she said to herself, seeing his powerful, shy figure,
with his shining eyes fixed on her. She looked straight
into his face, as though imploring him to spare her, and
gave her hand.
‘It’s not time yet; I think I’m too early,’ he said,
glancing round the empty drawing-room. When he
saw that his expectations were realised, that there was
nothing to prevent him from speaking, his face became
gloomy.
‘Oh, no,’ said Kitty, and sat down to the table.
‘But this was just what I wanted, to find you alone,’
he began, not sitting down, and not looking at her, so
as not to lose courage.
9
A: 19th-century Fiction
3
20,000 Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne, 1870
In this extract from Chapter 7, the narrator, Professor Pierre Aronnax, has fallen into
the sea along with his servant, Conseil, and his Canadian colleague, Ned Land. They
soon discover that there is something else in the sea with them.
“Were you thrown into the sea by the shock of the frigate?”
“Yes, Professor; but more fortunate than you, I was able to find a footing almost
directly upon a floating island.”
“An island?”
5
“Or, more correctly speaking, on our gigantic narwhal.”
“Explain yourself, Ned!”
“Only I soon found out why my harpoon had not entered its skin and was
blunted.”
“Why, Ned, why?”
10
“Because, Professor, that beast is made of sheet iron.”
The Canadian’s last words produced a sudden revolution in my brain. I wriggled
myself quickly to the top of the being, or object, half out of the water, which
served us for a refuge. I kicked it. It was evidently a hard impenetrable body, and
not the soft substance that forms the bodies of the great marine mammalia. But
15
this hard body might be a bony carapace, like that of the antediluvian animals;
and I should be free to class this monster among amphibious reptiles, such as
tortoises or alligators.
Well, no! the blackish back that supported me was smooth, polished, without
scales. The blow produced a metallic sound; and, incredible though it may be, it
20
seemed, I might say, as if it was made of riveted plates.
There was no doubt about it! This monster, this natural phenomenon that
had puzzled the learned world, and overthrown and misled the imagination of
seamen of both hemispheres, was, it must be owned, a still more astonishing
phenomenon, inasmuch as it was a simply human construction.
25
We had no time to lose, however. We were lying upon the back of a sort of
submarine boat, which appeared (as far as I could judge) like a huge fish of
steel. Ned Land’s mind was made up on this point. Conseil and I could only
agree with him.
Just then, a bubbling began at the back of this strange thing (which was
30
evidently propelled by a screw), and it began to move. We had only just time to
seize hold of the upper part, which rose about seven feet out of the water, and
happily its speed was not great.
10
A: 19th-century Fiction
“As long as it sails horizontally,” muttered Ned Land, “I do not mind; but if it
takes a fancy to dive, I would not give two straws for my life.”
35
The Canadian might have said still less. It became really necessary to
communicate with the beings, whatever they were, shut up inside the machine.
I searched all over the outside for an aperture, a panel, or a man-hole, to use a
technical expression; but the lines of the iron rivets, solidly driven into the joints
of the iron plates, were clear and uniform. Besides, the moon disappeared then,
40
and left us in total darkness.
At last this long night passed. My indistinct remembrance prevents my
describing all the impressions it made. I can only recall one circumstance. During
some lulls of the wind and sea, I fancied I heard several times vague sounds, a
sort of fugitive harmony produced by distant words of command. What was then
45
the mystery of this submarine craft, of which the whole world vainly sought an
explanation? What kind of beings existed in this strange boat? What mechanical
agent caused its prodigious speed?
Daybreak appeared. The morning mists surrounded us, but they soon cleared
off. I was about to examine the hull, which formed on deck a kind of horizontal
50
platform, when I felt it gradually sinking.
“Oh! confound it!” cried Ned Land, kicking the resounding plate; “open, you
inhospitable rascals!”
Happily the sinking movement ceased. Suddenly a noise, like iron works
violently pushed aside, came from the interior of the boat. One iron plate was
55
moved, a man appeared, uttered an odd cry, and disappeared immediately.
Some moments after, eight strong men, with masked faces, appeared
noiselessly, and drew us down into their formidable machine.
Glossary
frigate a type of warship
narwhal a medium-sized toothed whale
mammalia mammals
carapace section of a shell
antediluvian period of time before the flood in the Bible
11
A: 19th-century Fiction
4
Castle Rackrent by Maria Edgeworth, 1800
In this extract from the section entitled ‘History of Sir Conolly Rackrent’, the narrator
recalls the time when the owner of Castle Rackrent introduced his new bride to his
servants.
5
10
15
20
25
12
My new lady was young, as might be supposed of a lady that had
been carried off by her own consent to Scotland, but I could only
see her at first through her veil, which, from bashfulness or fashion,
she kept over her face— ‘And am I to walk through all this crowd of
people, my dearest love?’ said she to Sir Condy, meaning us servants
and tenants, who had gathered at the back gate—‘My dear (said Sir
Condy) there’s nothing for it but to walk, or to let me carry you as far
as the house, for you see the back road’s too narrow for a carriage,
and the great piers have tumbled down across the front approach, so
there’s no driving the right way, by reason of the ruins’—‘Plato, thou
reasonest well!’ said she, or words to that effect, which I could no ways
understand; and again, when her foot stumbled against a broken bit
of a car wheel, she cried out—‘Angels and ministers of grace, defend
us!’—Well, thought I, to be sure, if she’s no Jewish like the last, she is
a mad woman for certain, which is as bad: it would have been as well
for my poor master to have taken up with poor Judy, who is in her
right mind any how.
She was dressed like a mad woman, moreover, more than like any
one I ever saw afore or since, and I could not take my eyes off her,
but still followed behind her, and her feathers on the top of her hat
were broke going in at the low back door, and she pulled out her
little bottle out of her pocket to smell to when she found herself in
the kitchen, and said, ‘I shall faint with the heat of this odious, odious
place’—‘My dear, it’s only three steps across the kitchen, and there’s a
fine air if your veil was up,’ said Sir Condy, and with that threw back
her veil, so that I had then a full sight of her face; she had not at all
the colour of one going to faint, but a fine complexion of her own, as
I then took it to be, though her maid told me after it was all put on;
A: 19th-century Fiction
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but even complexion and all taken in, she was no way, in point of
good looks, to compare to poor Judy; and with all she had a quality
toss with her; but may be it was my over partiality to Judy, into whose
place I may say she stept, that made me notice all this.—To do her
justice, however, she was, when we came to know her better, very
liberal in her house-keeping nothing at all of the Skin-flint in her; she
left every thing to the housekeeper, and her own maid, Mrs. Jane,
who went with her to Scotland, gave her the best of characters for
generosity; she seldom or ever wore a thing twice the same way, Mrs.
Jane told us, and was always pulling her things to pieces, and giving
them away, never being used in her father’s house to think of expence
in any thing—and she reckoned, to be sure, to go on the same way
at Castle Rackrent; but when I came to enquire, I learned that her
father was so mad with her for running off after his locking her up,
and forbidding her to think any more of Sir Condy, that he would not
give her a farthing; and it was lucky for her she had a few thousands
of her own, which had been left to her by a good grandmother, and
these were very convenient to begin with. My master and my lady set
out in great stile; they had the finest coach and chariot, and horses
and liveries, and cut the greatest dash in the county, returning their
wedding visits!—and it was immediately reported that her father
had undertaken to pay all my master’s debts, and of course all his
tradesmen gave him a new credit, and everything went on smack
smooth, and I could not but admire my lady’s spirit, and was proud to
see Castle Rackrent again in all its glory.
Glossary
Plato Ancient Greek philosopher and mathematician
13
A: 19th-century Fiction
5
David Copperfield by Charles Dickens, 1850
In this extract from Chapter 3, Peggotty, the housekeeper, introduces David to his new
stepfather, Mr Murdstone.
The door opened, and I looked, half laughing and half crying in my
pleasant agitation, for my mother. It was not she, but a strange servant.
‘Why, Peggotty!’ I said, ruefully, ‘isn’t she come home?’
5
‘Yes, yes, Master Davy,’ said Peggotty. ‘She’s come home.
Wait a bit, Master Davy, and I’ll—I’ll tell you something.’
10
Between her agitation, and her natural awkwardness in getting
out of the cart, Peggotty was making a most extraordinary festoon of
herself, but I felt too blank and strange to tell her so. When she had got
down, she took me by the hand; led me, wondering, into the kitchen;
and shut the door.
‘Peggotty!’ said I, quite frightened. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing’s the matter, bless you, Master Davy dear!’ she answered,
assuming an air of sprightliness.
‘Something’s the matter, I’m sure. Where’s mama?’
15
‘Where’s mama, Master Davy?’ repeated Peggotty.
‘Yes. Why hasn’t she come out to the gate, and what have we come
in here for? Oh, Peggotty!’ My eyes were full, and I felt as if I were
going to tumble down.
20
‘Bless the precious boy!’ cried Peggotty, taking hold of me. ‘What is
it? Speak, my pet!’
‘Not dead, too! Oh, she’s not dead, Peggotty?’
Peggotty cried out No! with an astonishing volume of voice; and
then sat down, and began to pant, and said I had given her a turn.
25
30
I gave her a hug to take away the turn or to give her another turn in
the right direction, and then stood before her, looking at her in anxious
inquiry.
‘You see, dear, I should have told you before now,’ said Peggotty,
‘but I hadn’t an opportunity. I ought to have made it, perhaps, but
I couldn’t azackly’—that was always the substitute for exactly, in
Peggotty’s militia of words—‘bring my mind to it.’
‘Go on, Peggotty,’ said I, more frightened than before.
‘Master Davy,’ said Peggotty, untying her bonnet with a shaking
hand, and speaking in a breathless sort of way. ‘What do you think?
You have got a Pa!’
14
A: 19th-century Fiction
35
I trembled, and turned white. Something—I don’t know what, or
how—connected with the grave in the churchyard, and the raising of
the dead, seemed to strike me like an unwholesome wind.
‘A new one,’ said Peggotty.
‘A new one?’ I repeated.
40
Peggotty gave a gasp, as if she were swallowing something that was
very hard, and, putting out her hand, said:
‘Come and see him.’
‘I don’t want to see him.’
— ‘And your mama,’ said Peggotty.
45
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I ceased to draw back, and we went straight to the best parlour,
where she left me. On one side of the fire, sat my mother; on the other,
Mr Murdstone. My mother dropped her work, and arose hurriedly,
but timidly I thought.
‘Now, Clara my dear,’ said Mr Murdstone. ‘Recollect! control
yourself, always control yourself! Davy boy, how do you do?’
I gave him my hand. After a moment of suspense, I went and kissed
my mother: she kissed me, patted me gently on the shoulder, and sat
down again to her work. I could not look at her, I could not look at
him, I knew quite well that he was looking at us both; and I turned to
the window and looked out there at some shrubs that were drooping
their heads in the cold.
As soon as I could creep away, I crept up-stairs. My old dear
bedroom was changed, and I was to lie a long way off. I rambled
down-stairs to find anything that was like itself, so altered it all
seemed; and roamed into the yard. I very soon started back from
there, for the empty dog-kennel was filled up with a great dog—deepmouthed and black-haired like Him—and he was very angry at the
sight of me, and sprang out to get at me.
† † † †
Glossary
militia army or fighting force
15
A: 19th-century Fiction
6
Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen, 1817
In this extract from Chapter 1, we are introduced to Catherine Morland, the heroine
of the novel.
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A family of ten children will be always called a fine
family, where there are heads and arms and legs enough
for the number; but the Morlands had little other right
to the word, for they were in general very plain, and
Catherine, for many years of her life, as plain as any.
She had a thin awkward figure, a sallow skin without
colour, dark lank hair, and strong features – so much
for her person; and not less unpropitious for heroism
seemed her mind. She was fond of all boys’ plays, and
greatly preferred cricket not merely to dolls, but to the
more heroic enjoyments of infancy, nursing a dormouse,
feeding a canary-bird, or watering a rose-bush. Indeed
she had no taste for a garden; and if she gathered flowers
at all, it was chiefly for the pleasure of mischief – at
least so it was conjectured from her always preferring
those which she was forbidden to take. Such were her
propensities – her abilities were quite as extraordinary.
She never could learn or understand anything before
she was taught; and sometimes not even then, for
she was often inattentive, and occasionally stupid.
Her mother was three months in teaching her only to
repeat the ‘Beggar’s Petition’; and after all, her next
sister, Sally, could say it better than she did. Not that
Catherine was always stupid – by no means; she learnt
the fable of ‘The Hare and many Friends’ as quickly as
any girl in England. Her mother wished her to learn
music; and Catherine was sure she should like it, for
she was very fond of tinkling the keys of the old forlorn
spinner; so, at eight years old she began. She learnt a
year, and could not bear it; and Mrs Morland, who
did not insist on her daughters being accomplished in
spite of incapacity or distaste, allowed her to leave off.
The day which dismissed the music-master was one of
A: 19th-century Fiction
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the happiest of Catherine’s life. Her taste for drawing
was not superior; though whenever she could obtain
the outside of a letter from her mother or seize upon
any other odd piece of paper, she did what she could
in that way, by drawing houses and trees, hens and
chickens, all very much like one another. Writing and
accounts she was taught by her father; French by her
mother: her proficiency in either was not remarkable,
and she shirked her lessons in both whenever she could.
What a strange, unaccountable character! – for with
all these symptoms of profligacy at ten years old, she
had neither a bad heart nor a bad temper, was seldom
stubborn, scarcely ever quarrelsome, and very kind to
the little ones, with few interruptions of tyranny; she
was moreover noisy and wild, hated confinement and
cleanliness , and loved nothing so well in the world as
rolling down the green slope at the back of the house.
Such was Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen,
appearances were mending; she began to curl her
hair and long for balls; her complexion improved,
her features were softened by plumpness and colour,
her eyes gained more animation, and her figure more
consequence. Her love of dirt gave way to an inclination
for finery, and she grew clean as she grew smart; she
had now the pleasure of sometimes hearing her father
and mother remark on her personal improvement.
‘Catherine grows quite a good-looking girl – she is
almost pretty today,’ were words which caught her ears
now and then; and how welcome were the sounds! To
look almost pretty is an acquisition of higher delight to a
girl who has been looking plain the first fifteen years of
her life, than a beauty from her cradle can ever receive.
17
A: 19th-century Fiction
7
Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson, 1883
In this extract from Chapter 1, the narrator, Jim Hawkins, remembers when he first
met the man who asked to be addressed as ‘Captain’, Billy Bones.
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15
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I remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came
plodding to the inn door, his sea-chest following behind
him in a handbarrow; a tall, strong, heavy, nut-brown
man, his tarry pigtail falling over the shoulders of his
soiled blue coat; his hands ragged and scarred, with black,
broken nails; and the sabre cut across one cheek, a dirty,
livid white. I remember him looking round the cove and
whistling to himself as he did so, and then breaking out
in that old sea-song that he sang so often afterwards:—
‘Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest—
Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!’
in the high, old tottering voice that seemed to have been
tuned and broken at the capstan bars. Then he rapped
on the door with a bit of stick like a handspike that he
carried, and when my father appeared, called roughly
for a glass of rum. This, when it was brought to him, he
drank slowly, like a connoisseur, lingering on the taste,
and still looking about him at the cliffs and up at our
signboard.
‘This is a handy cove,’ says he, at length; ‘and a pleasant
sittyated grog-shop. Much company, mate?’
My father told him no, very little company, the more was
the pity.
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‘Well, then,’ said he, ‘this is the berth for me. Here you,
matey,’ he cried to the man who trundled the barrow;
‘bring up alongside and help up my chest. I’ll stay here a
bit,’ he continued. ‘I’m a plain man; rum and bacon and
eggs is what I want, and that head up there for to watch
ships off. What you mought call me? You mought call me
captain. Oh, I see what you’re at—there;’ and he threw
down three or four gold pieces on the threshold. ‘You can
tell me when I’ve worked through that,’ says he, looking
as fierce as a commander.
A: 19th-century Fiction
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And, indeed, bad as his clothes were and coarsely as
he spoke, he had none of the appearance of a man who
sailed before the mast; but seemed like a mate or skipper,
accustomed to be obeyed or to strike. The man who came
with the barrow told us the mail had set him down the
morning before at the ‘Royal George;’ that he had inquired
what inns there were along the coast, and hearing ours
well spoken of, I suppose, and described as lonely, had
chosen it from the others for his place of residence. And
that was all we could learn of our guest.
He was a very silent man by custom. All day he hung
round the cove, or upon the cliffs, with a brass telescope;
all evening he sat in a corner of the parlour next the fire,
and drank rum and water very strong. Mostly he would
not speak when spoken to; only look up sudden and
fierce, and blow through his nose like a fog-horn; and we
and the people who came about our house soon learned to
let him be. Every day, when he came back from his stroll,
he would ask if any seafaring men had gone by along the
road. At first we thought it was the want of company of
his own kind that made him ask this question; but at last
we began to see he was desirous to avoid them. ... For me,
at least, there was no secret about the matter; for I was,
in a way, a sharer in his alarms. He had taken me aside
one day, and promised me a silver fourpenny on the first
of every month if I would only keep my ‘weather-eye open
for a seafaring man with one leg,’ and let him know the
moment he appeared. Often enough, when the first of the
month came round, and I applied to him for my wage, he
would only blow through his nose at me, and stare me
down; but before the week was out he was sure to think
better of it, bring me my fourpenny piece, and repeat his
orders to look out for ‘the seafaring man with one leg.’
Glossary
capstan a machine developed for ships to apply force to ropes
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A: 19th-century Fiction
8
Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë, 1847
In this extract from Chapter 9, Catherine tells Ellen Dean, ‘Nelly’, the narrator, about
her love for Heathcliff and how she will marry Edgar Linton in order to help Heathcliff.
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‘This is nothing,’ cried she: ‘I was only going to say that heaven
did not seem to be my home; and I broke my heart with weeping
to come back to earth; and the angels were so angry that they
flung me out into the middle of the heath on the top of Wuthering
Heights; where I woke sobbing for joy. That will do to explain my
secret, as well as the other. I’ve no more business to marry Edgar
Linton than I have to be in heaven; and if the wicked man in
there had not brought Heathcliff so low, I shouldn’t have thought
of it. It would degrade me to marry Heathcliff now; so he shall
never know how I love him: and that, not because he’s handsome,
Nelly, but because he’s more myself than I am. Whatever our
souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton’s is as
different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire.’
Ere this speech ended, I became sensible of Heathcliff’s
presence. Having noticed a slight movement, I turned my head,
and saw him rise from the bench, and steal out noiselessly. He
had listened till he heard Catherine say it would degrade her to
marry him, and then he stayed to hear no further. My companion,
sitting on the ground, was prevented by the back of the settle
from remarking his presence or departure; but I started, and bade
her hush!
‘Why?’ she asked, gazing nervously round.
‘Joseph is here,’ I answered, catching opportunely the roll of his
cart-wheels up the road; ‘and Heathcliff will come in with him.
I’m not sure whether he were not at the door this moment.’
‘Oh, he couldn’t overhear me at the door!’ said she. ‘Give me
Hareton, while you get the supper, and when it is ready ask me to
sup with you. I want to cheat my uncomfortable conscience, and
be convinced that Heathcliff has no notion of these things. He
has not, has he? He does not know what being in love is?’
‘I see no reason that he should not know, as well as you,’ I
returned; ‘and if you are his choice, he will be the most unfortunate
A: 19th-century Fiction
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creature that ever was born! As soon as you become Mrs Linton,
he loses friend, and love, and all! Have you considered how you’ll
bear the separation, and how he’ll bear to be quite deserted in the
world? Because, Miss Catherine . . .’
‘He quite deserted! we separated!’ she exclaimed, with an accent
of indignation. ‘Who is to separate us, pray? They’ll meet the fate
of Milo! Not as long as I live, Ellen: for no mortal creature. Every
Linton on the face of the earth might melt into nothing, before I
could consent to forsake Heathcliff. Oh, that’s not what I intend
— that’s not what I mean! I shouldn’t be Mrs Linton were such
a price demanded! He’ll be as much to me as he has been all his
lifetime. Nelly, I see now, you think me a selfish wretch; but did
it never strike you that if Heathcliff and I married, we should be
beggars? whereas, if I marry Linton, I can aid Heathcliff to rise,
and place him out of my brother’s power.’
‘With your husband’s money, Miss Catherine?’ I asked. ‘You’ll
find him not so pliable as you calculate upon: and though I’m
hardly a judge, I think that’s the worst motive you’ve given yet for
being the wife of young Linton.’
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A: 19th-century Fiction
9
The Invisible Man by H. G. Wells, 1897
In this extract from Chapter 4, Dr Cuss tells Mr Bunting, the vicar, about his visit to
the invisible man.
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He left the door open behind him, and without looking at her
strode across the hall and went down the steps, and she heard his
feet hurrying along the road. He carried his hat in his hand. She
stood behind the door, looking at the open door of the parlour. Then
she heard the stranger laughing quietly, and then his footsteps
came across the room. She could not see his face where she stood.
The parlour door slammed, and the place was silent again.
Cuss went straight up the village to Bunting the vicar. ‘Am I
mad?’ Cuss began abruptly, as he entered the shabby little study.
‘Do I look like an insane person?’
‘What’s happened?’ said the vicar, putting the ammonite on the
loose sheets of his forthcoming sermon.
‘That chap at the inn —’
‘Well?’
‘Give me something to drink,’ said Cuss, and he sat down.
When his nerves had been steadied by a glass of cheap sherry,
the only drink the good vicar had available, he told him of the
interview he had just had. ‘Went in,’ he gasped, ‘and began to
demand a subscription for that Nurse Fund. He’d stuck his hands
in his pockets as I came in, and he sat down lumpily in his chair.
Sniffed. I told him I’d heard he took an interest in scientific things.
He said yes. Sniffed again. Kept on sniffing all the time; evidently
recently caught an infernal cold. No wonder, wrapped up like that!
I developed the nurse idea, and all the while kept my eyes open.
Bottles – chemicals – everywhere. Balance, test-tubes in stands,
and a smell of – evening primrose. Would he subscribe? Said he’d
consider it. Asked him, point-blank, was he researching. Said he
was. A long research? Got quite cross. “A damnable long research,”
said he, blowing the cork out, so to speak. “Oh,” said I. And out
came the grievance. The man was just on the boil, and my question
boiled him over. He had been given a prescription, most valuable
prescription – what for he wouldn’t say. Was it medical? “Damn you!
What are you fishing after?” I apologised. Dignified sniff and cough.
He resumed. He’d read it. Five ingredients. Put it down; turned his
head. Draught of air from window lifted the paper. Swish, rustle. He
was working in a room with an open fireplace, he said. Saw a flicker,
and there was the prescription burning and lifting chimneyward.
A: 19th-century Fiction
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Rushed towards it just as it whisked up chimney. So! Just at that
point, to illustrate his story, out came his arm.
‘Well?’
‘No hand, just an empty sleeve. Lord! I thought, that’s a deformity!
Got a cork arm, I suppose, and has taken it off. Then, I thought,
there’s something odd in that. What the devil keeps that sleeve up
and open, if there’s nothing in it? There was nothing in it, I tell you.
Nothing down it, right down to the joint. I could see right down it to
the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear
of the cloth. “Good God!” I said. Then he stopped. Stared at me with
those black goggles of his, and then at his sleeve.’
‘Well?’
‘That’s all. He never said a word; just glared, and put his sleeve
back in his pocket quickly. “I was saying,” said he, “that there was
the prescription burning, wasn’t I?” Interrogative cough. “How the
devil,” said I, “can you move an empty sleeve like that?” “Empty
sleeve?” “Yes,” said I, “an empty sleeve.”’
‘“It’s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was an empty sleeve?” He
stood up right away. I stood up too. He came towards me in three
very slow steps, and stood quite close. Sniffed venomously. I didn’t
flinch, though I’m hanged if that bandaged knob of his, and those
blinkers, aren’t enough to unnerve any one, coming quietly up to
you.
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B:20th- and 21st-century Non-fiction and
Literary Non-fiction
1Learning
20th century: Kurt Vonnegut – letter to his daughter, Nanette, 1972
Kurt Vonnegut was an American author whose works include Slaughterhouse-Five. This
letter, written in 1972, is from him to his daughter Nanette, whom he addressed as ‘Nanny’,
‘Nanno’ or ‘Nan’.
Dear Nanno –
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You should know that I as a college student didn’t write my
parents much. You said all that really matters in your first letter
from out there (unless you get in a jam) — that you love me a lot.
Mark wrote me the same thing recently. That helps, and it lasts for
years. I think I withheld that message from my parents. Either that,
or I said it so often that it became meaningless. Same thing, either
way.
I promise to take your advice, to try painting again. I quit when
the slightly talented ghost who had borrowed my hands decided
to take his business elsewhere. Everything was coming together
before my eyes for a little while. After that came kindergarten
smears.
Most letters from a parent contain a parent’s own lost dreams
disguised as good advice. My good advice to you is to pay
somebody to teach you to speak some foreign language, to meet
with you two or three times a week and talk. Also: get somebody
to teach you to play a musical instrument. What makes this advice
especially hollow and pious is that I am not dead yet. If it were any
good, I could easily take it myself.
One of the most startling things that ever happened to me when I
was your age had to do with a woman who was my age now. She
didn’t know what to do with her life, and I told her that the least
she could do was to learn to play the piano. But my apartment isn’t
big enough for a piano, and I’m too lazy to move. Edith has the
right idea for lazy people: marry somebody with energy to burn.
I’m going to England for a week next month — to go to collegetown openings there of [the movie of] Slaughterhouse-Five. I will
think of you, and I will remember with pleasure how shy we
were, how sort of gummed-up we were. That was appropriate. It
would have been hateful if we had been hilarious, like a father and
daughter in a TV show.
Don’t answer this letter for years.
Remember me fondly.
Love –
K
B: 20th- and 21st-century Non-fiction and Literary Non-fiction
21st century: The Guardian – ‘Children are robbed of the right to education
worldwide – but we can help’, 2014
Julia Gillard was Prime Minister of Australia between 2010–13. This is an extract from
an article in The Guardian.
Children are robbed of the right to education
worldwide – but we can help
As the ‘Bring back our girls’ campaign and the attack on Malala have shown, basic education
is routinely denied to children. International efforts can begin to right this wrong
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Attacks on education have become visible in our
world. The shooting of Malala Yousafzai, who
was shot for daring to go to school, shocked
us. We cheered when she won her fight for
life. And now we are in new despair over the
kidnapping of girls in Nigeria by terrorists who
want to stop them going to school.
So many more violent episodes never make
it into the media as the fight to spread the
transforming power of education continues. The
world is still struggling to fulfil the commitment
made in 2000 to the UN goal of education
for all – that is, extending to every child the
opportunity to learn and thus fulfil his or her full
human potential.
Sometimes, the impediment is violence. More
routinely, it is lack of funds and capacity. While
we have seen progress over the past decade or
so, there are still 57m children without access to
schooling, many of them living in places without
proper classrooms, school materials and trained
teachers – if there are any teachers at all.
In addition, an estimated 250m children
either miss out on school or suffer from a lack of
a continuous, quality education that allows them
to learn the basics of reading, writing and math.
Getting all of these children in school remains
an audacious goal – but an eminently achievable
one if the world commits to solving it.
Both common sense and overwhelming
evidence teach us that basic education is
fundamental to progress in many different
development areas. With more students in
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school and learning, nations can reduce poverty
and other adverse economic, social and health
challenges. In fragile and conflict-affected states,
education can insulate children from chaos and
insecurity, and better prepare them to bring
about future stability.
That’s the compelling idea behind the Global
Partnership for Education, whose board I
now chair. Because it harnesses the power of
collaboration among donor nations, multilateral
organisations, NGOs, private-sector institutions
and developing nations, the Global Partnership
can accelerate and broaden the world’s
continued pursuit for educating all the world’s
children – especially the most marginalised, such
as girls, children with disabilities, and those from
the poorest families and communities.
It does this, first of all, by appealing to its
partners to provide funding for education,
incentivising developing country partners to
commit more of their own domestic budgets
spent in their countries (up to a target of 20%)
into education. We believe this is among the
wisest investments our governments worldwide
can make. We also encourage donor countries,
multilaterals, the private sector and other
funding sources to contribute to the fund,
from which we allocate financial support for
the education sector in developing nations,
delivering on the education for all promise in the
process. The whole we coordinate and mobilise
is definitely more powerful than the sum of its
parts.
Glossary
UN United Nations, the international organisation created to promote cooperation
between countries
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B: 20th- and 21st-century Non-fiction and Literary Non-fiction
2
Winning and Losing
20th century: Tony Blair – ‘Leader’s speech, Brighton, 1997’
Tony Blair, Prime Minister of the UK, 1997–2007, made this speech at the first Labour
Party Conference following his election.
After 18 long years of Opposition, of frustration and despair, I am proud,
privileged, to stand before you as the new Labour Prime Minister of our
country. I believe in Britain. I believe in the British people. One cross on the
ballot paper. One nation was reborn.
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Today I want to set an ambitious course for this country. To be nothing less
than the model 21st century nation, a beacon to the world. It means drawing
deep into the richness of the British character. Creative. Compassionate.
Outward-looking. Old British values, but a new British confidence. We can
never be the biggest. We may never again be the mightiest. But we can be the
best. The best place to live. The best place to bring up children, the best place
to lead a fulfilled life, the best place to grow old.
14 years ago our Party was written off as history. This year we made it. Let
our first thanks be to the British people. You kept faith with us. And we will
keep faith with you. Thank you to the Party organisation, the volunteers, the
professionals who fashioned the finest political fighting machine anywhere
in the world. And thanks to those that led before me. To Neil Kinnock: the
mantle of Prime Minister was never his. But I know that without him, it
would never have been mine. To John Smith: who left us a fine legacy, and
to whom we can now leave a fitting monument – a Scottish Parliament in the
city where he lived, serving the country he loved and the people who loved
him. To Jim Callaghan: who was attending Labour Party Conferences before
I was born; and by the look of him, will be attending long after I’ve gone. My
own debt of honour to Michael Foot: you led this Party when, frankly, it was
incapable of being led and without ever losing a shred of your decency or your
integrity. Thank you.
I should also say a final word of thanks to the Tory Party. Let’s be honest, we’d
never have done so well without them. So thanks to Michael Howard, to John
Redwood, to Peter Lilley, to Brian Mawhinney. Of course, it’s a fresh start
now – with Michael Howard, John Redwood, Peter Lilley, Brian Mawhinney.
Sorry – ‘Sir’ Brian Mawhinney – knighted for services to the Conservative
Party. John Prescott wanted to give him a peerage – for services to the Labour
Party.
As for Government, well, it beats the hell out of Opposition. They really do
say ‘Yes, Prime Minister.’ You have to learn a whole new language. They’re
not in the habit of calling anything a good idea, which given the last 18 years
is hardly surprising.
B: 20th- and 21st-century Non-fiction and Literary Non-fiction
21st century: Andre Agassi – Open, 2009
Andre Agassi is a former top tennis player who won several major tournaments including
Wimbledon and the US Open. In this extract from Chapter 13 of his autobiography, he
describes what it feels like to lose a tennis match to his opponent, Jim Courier.
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fter the rain delay, Courier stations himself farther behind
the baseline, hoping to take some of the steam off my shots.
He’s had time to rest, and reflect, and recharge, and he storms
back to keep me from breaking, then wins the second set. Now
I’m angry. Furious. I win the third set, 6–2. I establish in Courier’s
mind, and in my own, that the second set was a fluke. Up two
sets to one, I can feel the finish line pulling me. My first slam. Six
little games away.
As the fourth set opens, I lose twelve of the first thirteen
points. Am I unraveling or is Courier playing better? I don’t
know. I’ll never know. But I do know that this feeling is familiar.
Hauntingly familiar. This sense of inevitability. This weightlessness
as momentum slips away. Courier wins the set, 6–1.
In the fifth set, tied 4–4, he breaks me. Now, all at once, I
just want to lose.
I can’t explain it any other way. In the fourth set I lost the
will, but now I’ve lost the desire. As certain as I felt about victory
at the start of this match, that’s how certain I am now of defeat.
And I want it. I long for it. I say under my breath: Let it be fast.
Since losing is death, I’d rather it be fast than slow.
I no longer hear the crowd. I no longer hear my own
thoughts, only a white noise between my ears. I can’t hear or feel
anything except my desire to lose. I drop the tenth and decisive
game of the fifth set, and congratulate Courier. Friends tell me it’s
the most desolate look they’ve ever seen on my face.
Afterward, I don’t scold myself. I coolly explain it to myself
this way: You don’t have what it takes to get over the line. You
just quit on yourself—you need to quit this game.
THE LOSS LEAVES A SCAR. Wendi says she can almost
see it, a mark as if I’ve been struck by lightning. That’s about all
she says on the long ride home.
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B: 20th- and 21st-century Non-fiction and Literary Non-fiction
3
Exotic Travel
20th century: Bill Bryson – Notes from a Small Island, 1995
Bill Bryson is an American author and travel writer who has written many humorous
accounts of his travels around the world. In this extract from Chapter 8 of his book
about Britain, he talks about sand and his trip to Studland Beach in Dorset.
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Among the many thousands of things that I have never been able to understand,
one in particular stands out. That is the question of who was the first person who
stood by a pile of sand and said, ‘You know, I bet if we took some of this and
mixed it with a little potash and heated it, we could make a material that would
be solid and yet transparent. We could call it glass.’ Call me obtuse, but you could
stand me on a beach till the end of time and never would it occur to me to try to
make it into windows.
Much as I admire sand’s miraculous ability to be transformed into useful
objects like glass and concrete, I am not a great fan of it in its natural state. To me,
it is primarily a hostile barrier that stands between a car park and water. It blows
in your face, gets in your sandwiches, swallows vital objects like car keys and
coins. In hot countries, it burns your feet and makes you go ‘Ooh! Ah!’ and hop
to the water in a fashion that people with better bodies find amusing. When you
are wet, it adheres to you like stucco, and cannot be shifted with a fireman’s hose.
But – and here’s the strange thing – the moment you step on a beach towel, climb
into a car or walk across a recently vacuumed carpet it all falls off.
For days afterwards, you tip astounding, mysteriously undiminishing piles of
it onto the floor every time you take off your shoes, and spray the vicinity with
quantities more when you peel off your socks. Sand stays with you for longer
than many contagious diseases. And dogs use it as a lavatory. No, you may keep
sand as far as I am concerned.
But I am prepared to make an exception for Studland Beach, where I found
myself now, having had a nifty brainstorm the previous day on the Salisbury
bus. I had dredged my memory banks and remembered a small promise I’d made
to myself many years before: that one day I would walk the Dorset coast path,
and now here I was on this sunny autumnal morn, fresh off the Sandbanks ferry,
clutching a knobby walking­stick that I had treated myself to in a moment of
impetuosity in Poole, and making my way around the regal sweep of this most
fetching of beaches.
It was a glorious day to be abroad. The sea was blue and covered with dancing
spangles, the sky was full of drifting clouds white as bedsheets, and the houses
and hotels of Sandbanks behind me looked radiant, almost Mediterranean, in the
clear air. I turned with a light heart and made my way along the moist, packed
sand at the water’s edge towards the village of Studland and beckoning green hills
beyond.
B: 20th- and 21st-century Non-fiction and Literary Non-fiction
21st century: Tatler magazine – ‘Hearts beat Aswan’, 2012
This text first appeared in Tatler magazine. The author, Lee Osborne, talks about his
travels around Egypt and how he used his mobile phone during the trip.
Hearts beat Aswan
Creative Director Lee Osborne puts the Samsung Galaxy S III
through its paces in ancient Egypt
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I have had a fascination with
Egypt ever since I was a young
boy. I was not big into history
at school, but those powerful,
exotic images of vast temples and
immense seated figures chiselled
out of rock have left an indelible
mark on my mind. It was the
stuff of dreams back then, but 30
years on here I am on the banks
of the mighty River Nile living
the fantasy.
It is these same images that I
have travelled all this way to
capture on the new Samsung
GALAXY S III, a smartphone
that rivals a DSLR in the image
stakes. We arrive in Aswan in
the dead of night, everything is
oh so still, oh so quiet. The view
will have to wait until morning.
But when I do finally get to open
the shutters of my vast suite, it’s
a déjà-vu moment as the view of
Aswan I had so vividly imagined
opens out beneath me.
Our base is the Old Cataract
Hotel, the grande dame of Aswan
that sits majestically atop a
granite bluff that overlooks
the River Nile. It has attracted
the great and the good ever
since it opened its doors back
in 1899. Following a three-year
makeover by Sofitel, that whiff
of old-school charm and inherent
graciousness remain. Its divine
ambience has enchanted the
likes of Winston Churchill, Omar
Sharif, Lord Mountbatten and
Agatha Christie, who penned
Death on the Nile here. The
peacefulness that presides here
inspired Hermès to name a
fragrance, Un Jardin sur le Nil,
after its verdant garden.
Aswan is like nowhere else I
have been, a place so far removed
from the madding world that
it almost feels spiritual. There
is an ever-present tranquillity
to the air that remains as we
charter an iconic felucca (yacht)
as the setting sun’s glow lends
a golden hue to the Nile. The
GALAXY S III’s in-built video
camera records the view in full
HD as we go. Our journey is
encyclopedic; first-up, the date
palm-fringed sand-dunes of
Aswan’s West Bank, pock-marked
with the rock-hewn Tombs of
the Nobles, Kitchener’s Island,
the Aga Khan’s Mausoleum, the
Monastery of St Simeon all glide
by, seamlessly captured by the
huge 4.8”HD Super AMOLED
display.
We take sanctuary at a Nubian
village where we ride camels
to the high summit, affording
majestic views of the mighty
British-built Aswan High Dam as
it disappears into the dusty haze.
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B: 20th- and 21st-century Non-fiction and Literary Non-fiction
4Danger
20th century: Joe Simpson – Touching the Void, 1988
Joe Simpson, along with Simon Yates, climbed up the Siula Grande mountain in the
Peruvian Andes and wrote a book describing the experience. In this extract from
Chapter 1, he talks about one of the acclimatisation peak climbs.
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For the first time in my life I knew what it meant to be isolated from
people and society. It was wonderfully calming and tranquil to be
here. I became aware of a feeling of complete freedom — to do what I
wanted to do when I wanted to, and in whatever manner. Suddenly the
whole day had changed. All lethargy was swept away by an invigorating
independence. We had responsibilities to no one but ourselves now, and
there would be no one to intrude or come to our rescue…
Simon was some distance ahead, quietly climbing, steadily gaining
ground. Although he had stolen a march on my less methodical pace, I
was no longer concerned about speed and fitness since I knew now that
we were pretty evenly matched. I was not in any hurry, and knew we
could both reach the summit easily. If a fine viewing point presented
itself, I was happy to stop for a moment to take in the view.
The rocky gullies were loose and crumbling. As I emerged from behind
a yellow outcrop, I was pleased to see Simon settled down on a col a
couple of hundred feet away preparing a hot drink.
‘The loose stuff wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be,’ I said a
little breathlessly. ‘But I could do with that brew.’
‘Seen Siula Grande, just over there, left of Sarapo?’
‘God, it’s fantastic.’ I was a little awed by the sight in front of me. ‘It’s
far bigger than those photographs suggested.’
Simon handed me a steaming mug as I sat on my rucksack and gazed
at the whole range laid out before us. To my left I could see the South
Face of Rasac, a sweeping ice slope with rock bands crossing it, giving
it a sort of stripy marbled effect. To the right of Rasac’s snowy summit,
and connected to it by a dangerously corniced ridge, I could see the
slightly lower summit of Seria Norte. From there the corniced ridge
dipped down to a saddle before curving up in a huge sweep over two
shoulders of rock to the final summit pyramid of Yerupaja. It was by far
the highest mountain to be seen and dominated our view as it reared,
glistening with ice and fresh snow, high above the Siula glacier. Its South
Face formed the classic triangular mountain shape; the West Ridge,
corniced and rocky, arched up from the col below Seria Norte, the East
Ridge curling round and dropping towards another col. The face below
this ridge was an astonishing series of parallel powder-snow flutings
etched like lace ribbons in the shadows cast by the sun.
B: 20th- and 21st-century Non-fiction and Literary Non-fiction
21st century: Independent – ‘Nemesis Sub-Terra: Are you feeling scared yet?’, 2012
This long article was written by Simon Calder for the Independent newspaper and describes
his day out at Alton Towers and his experience on the new Nemesis Sub-Terra ride.
Nemesis Sub-Terra: Are you
feeling scared yet?
On Saturday, Alton Towers will unveil its new attraction for thrill-seekers,
Nemesis Sub-Terra. Simon Calder gets a sneak preview of what’s billed as a
nightmare underground and finds that he’s not as tough as he thought.
Simon Calder
Wednesday, 21 March 2012
The pun is intentional: Nemesis Sub-Terra
is designed to instil terror in the thousands
of riders who, from Saturday, are expected
to surge through the turnstiles of Alton
Towers. But how scary is the new ride? At
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least two of us are keen to find out: me,
and my new friend Dr Paul Tennent, whom
I have known for only five minutes but
already has my shirt off and is attaching
10 electrodes to my chest.
Dr Tennent’s day job is as a computerscience lecturer in Nottingham. But he
is also part of the Thrill Laboratory. This
is a collective of scientists, psychologists,
15 sociologists and architects “dedicated to the
practical pursuit of creating, producing and
examining new forms of thrilling experience”,
which is just what Merlin and I need.
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Merlin is the UK’s biggest theme-park
company. It runs attractions from the
London Eye to the Blackpool Tower, but its
main focus is on what it might like to call
the triumvirate of terror: Thorpe Park and
Chessington World of Adventures, both
south-west of London, and Alton Towers in
northern Staffordshire. These theme parks
seek to provide big thrills on an industrial
scale, creating an addiction to adrenaline
that keeps the crowds coming. The best way
to feed that habit is to reinvent themselves
even more frequently than Madonna and
install a big new ride for the start of a
season.
Nemesis Sub-Terra is Alton Towers’ bid
for 2012. Building for what was code-named
the Catacomb Project began in September.
The new ride is described as “your worst
nightmare underground”. But just how
thrilling is it? That is what Dr Tennent and
I are hoping to find out; it explains why he
is now connecting devices to my fingertips
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to detect stress in the form of micro-beads
of sweat — the same principle used in liedetector technology, honest.
“We want to collect a caucus of data about
the physiological changes induced by thrills
and the different ways that people respond,”
he says. The organisation identified an ideal
gene pool of expendable guinea pigs and six
journalists duly turned up on Monday for
testing.
The attraction is located among pine
trees on a hilly corner of Alton Towers. It
is related, at least in the minds of those
who like to create a “back story” for these
things, to Nemesis. This is the rollercoaster
that transformed Alton Towers into a
premier-league attraction when it opened
in 1994. While the gaunt, serpentine
structure of Nemesis makes clear you can
expect a ride where your body, soul and
stomach simultaneously depart in different
directions, its Sub-Terra sibling gives no
clues.
The venue is a big steel shed, painted
military green and looking remarkably
like some of the more utilitarian airport
terminals that Ryanair uses at former airforce bases in Germany. And the shadowy
paramilitary force guarding the place is
fiercer than Ryanair cabin crew. They wear
black uniforms and shout a lot. Indeed,
you might conclude that they are rejects
from the academy that used to train East
German border guards and now coaches US
immigration officials. They are called The
Phalanx.
Dr Tennent is now doing something
complicated with wires and sensors to
measure my breathing patterns. He is not
like other computer-science lecturers: he
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spent his honeymoon in Disneyland Paris.
And his fellow researcher, Dr Joe Marshall,
who is helping to rig the infra-red camera
on a frame on my chest, once held the
record for 24-hour all-terrain unicycling
– a superlative of which I was previously
unaware.
I imagine that riding a unicycle down a
mountain in the dark scores fairly high on
the thrill scales that the good doctors are
seeking to measure. The more scientists
understand about fear, the better they can
define who is a suitable candidate for rides
like Nemesis Sub-Terra. The 1.4m height
restriction helps to sort out the men from
the boys and the women from the girls. But
for the first time ever, the British Board of
Film Classification has been brought in to
rate a theme-park attraction.
After several tests, Murray Perkins, senior
examiner at the BBFC, classified it as a
12A. In other words, under-12s are not
allowed in unaccompanied, although
“an adult may take a younger child if, in
their judgement, the film is suitable for
that particular child”.
Over 11? Check. Over 1.4m? Check. All
plugged in? Time to play.
As with queuing for a Ryanair flight,
some passengers are more equal than
others. After standing in line with the
masses, cutting through in the fast-track
lane or joining the loners in the Solo Riders
Only queue (that’s me), you enter the
structure and are told to stand on preassigned black dots. Doors open and you
are ushered — no, ordered — into a lift. The
noises, lights and vibrations are designed to
signal that you are descending deep into the
ground.
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You emerge into a chamber that feels like
the lair for a low-rent James Bond villain.
The tableau at the centre is surrounded by
1960s sci-fi zappers, pointing at a giant egg
that you are led to believe will hatch at any
moment, with unpleasant consequences
for all humanity, particularly yourself.
More shouting directs you to a seat, where
the “sequesters” — the usual theme-park
restraining harnesses — are lowered.
Then the sudden darkness indicates the
experience is about to begin.
A sharp spray of air hits you in the face.
You drop who knows how far into the void.
You jolt to a halt and as you try to make
sense of your surroundings a tentacle or two
jabs you from behind.
Then the guards come into their own.
Like extras from a hostage-simulation
exercise, they yell at you to escape.
Seconds later you find yourself back in
leafy Staffordshire. And, in my case, being
untangled by Dr Tennent.
“The data maps what the ride is doing,”
he says after the numbers have been
crunched. The breathing record shows an
involuntary gasp when the lights went
out. After the blast of air, I started shallow
breathing – though Dr Tennent was kind
enough to describe it as “manly panting”.
The best correlation, though, was with the
heart monitor. “You’re generally a flat-liner,
but when the ride dropped your heart rate
jumped from about 60 to 172 – and then
again when you were poked in the back of
the legs,” he says. “The ride is going for that
sudden intensity – as though you went from
normal to running full-tilt down the street
in an instant.” The highest rate was saved
for the end when the shouting reached
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a peak. It shot up again to 186 – three
times the rate at rest. Evidence, perhaps,
of a latent fear of authority or simply too
many encounters with East German and
US frontier officials. It is also an indication
that the best thing about the new ride is its
theatricality.
The BBFC’s guidelines for a 12A allow
“moderate physical and psychological
threat, provided that the disturbing
sequences are not frequent or sustained”. I
suspect that most of the people who pass the
12 years/1.4m hurdles and try out Nemesis
will latch on to that word “moderate”.
We do not go to theme parks for
“moderate” experiences. We go to be scared
witless. I plan to be first in the queue for
The Swarm, the new ride at Thorpe Park. It
promises “a death-defying flight through
apocalyptic devastation”, which doesn’t
sound too moderate, with “near misses
and gut-wrenching inversions as it rips
through the sky on its mission of complete
annihilation”. You don’t get that sort of
thing on Ryanair.
As the pale sun sinks over Staffordshire,
the scientists are studying my heart-rate
graph, which shows peaks that even
Dr Marshall might hesitate to unicycle
down and tell a different story to my
conscious response to Nemesis Sub-Terra.
“It shows that it doesn’t matter how calm
you are – the ride will scare the crap
out of you,” Dr Tennent says. Is the
purpose of the exercise, I wonder, to
snigger at what scaredy-cats journalists
are? No, says Dr Tennent, it is much more
important than that. “If you understand
how people respond to thrills, you can
design better rides.”
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B: 20th- and 21st-century Non-fiction and Literary Non-fiction
5Imprisonment
20th century: Brian Keenan – An Evil Cradling, 1991
Brian Keenan is an Irish writer who wrote An Evil Cradling in which he talks about the
almost five years he was held hostage in Beirut. In this extract from the sixth section,
‘Into the Dark’, he describes his cell and his life as a prisoner.
INTO THE DARK
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I had, of course, like all of us, seen prison cells. We have all
seen films about prisoners, or read books about prison life. Some
of the great stories of escape and imprisonment are part of our
history. It seems much of our culture is laden with these stories.
But when I think back to that cell, I know that nothing that I
had seen before could compare with that most dismal of places.
I will describe it briefly to you, that you may see it for yourself.
It was built very shoddily of rough-cut concrete blocks
haphazardly put together and joined by crude slapdash cementwork. Inside, and only on the inside, the walls were plastered
over with that same dull grey cement. There was no paint.
There was no colour, just the constant monotony of rough grey
concrete. The cell was six feet long and four feet wide. I could
stand up and touch those walls with my outstretched hands and
walk those six feet in no more than four paces. On the floor was
a foam mattress. With the mattress laid out I had a pacing stage
of little more than a foot’s width.
In one corner there was a bottle of water which I replenished
daily when I went to the toilet, and in another corner was a
bottle for urine, which I took with me to empty. There was
also a plastic cup in which I kept a much abused and broken
toothbrush. On the mattress was an old, ragged, filthy cover.
It had originally been a curtain. There was one blanket which I
never used, due to the heat, the filth and the heavy smell, stale
and almost putrid, of the last person who had slept there. The
cell had no windows. A sheet steel door was padlocked every
day, sounding like a thump on the head to remind me where
I was. At the head of the mattress I kept my briefcase with my
school text books. Behind the briefcase I hid my shoes. I was
forever afraid that I would lose those shoes. If I did, I felt it
would be a sure sign that I would never leave the cell. I was
insistent that they should not have them.
B: 20th- and 21st-century Non-fiction and Literary Non-fiction
21st century: Sunday Times magazine – ‘Can we live without modern
technology?’, 2013
This extract is taken from an article written by Robert Crampton for the Sunday Times
magazine, in which he describes an experiment his family took part in. They were
challenged to live as they would have done in 1980 with no mobiles, laptops or Google.
technology
Can we live without modern technology?
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he four of us – Nicola and I
(both 49), 16-year-old Sam
and 14-year-old Rachel –
had not, I assumed, become so
dependent on our various devices
as to be incapable of doing without
them. The mobiles and laptops,
the iPads and PS3s, the boxed
sets and Sky Anytime and DVD
rentals, the cordless this and
wireless the other, the Google and
Netflix and Facebook, and not
forgetting good old e-mail and all
the other services and gadgets
and gizmos of which I am but
dimly aware yet which Sam and
Rachel take for granted… Surely
we could forsake them all without
too much trouble? It’s not as if
we’d become addicted. Nicola and I
are educated people. We would all
sit around the fire and, um, read
poetry. Or embroider stuff. Or
something. It’d be fine.
It wasn’t fine. It was a farce.
Yet, I would argue, an instructive
farce. Basically, whenever any
hurdle looked a little high, any
obstacle a little difficult, any
sacrifice a little painful, we bottled
it. Like a horse doing showjumping
that, at each successive fence,
goes, “Nah. Thanks all the same.
I’d rather not bother.”
My family’s inability to abstain
from new technology was a shock.
Nicola and I always imagined
we had exercised restraint. We
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may not have adopted the zerotolerance stance some advocate;
neither had we gone all-in. We
had followed the standard middleof-the-road, middle-class path,
equipping our children (and
ourselves) with the requisite
electronic tools, while not allowing
them to take over.
We were wary of becoming
slaves to technology. We made
any effort to preserve family
life. No phones at the dinner
table. Restrictions on television,
gaming, texting, facebooking.
A degree of respect (sort of)
for the age certificates on films
and games. Fresh air, exercise,
reading, chores, all-round general
wholesomeness – you know the
drill – actively promoted. A firm
stance on TVs in bedrooms.
We were gratified, perhaps
even a bit smug, that Sam and
Rachel accepted this last edict
with surprisingly little fuss. Then
Nicola twigged that these days,
laptops – and phones, and for all I
know, other contraptions, too – do
what TVs can do. The blighters
could watch telly after lights
out! We duly confiscated their
computers at bedtime. That lasted
a few days, after which we relaxed
our vigil, the computers drifted
back into the bedrooms; you know
how these things go. Not easy, is it?
But let’s give it a go anyway.
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B: 20th- and 21st-century Non-fiction and Literary Non-fiction
6
The Brain
20th century: Guy Claxton – Hare Brain, Tortoise Mind, 1997
Guy Claxton is a scientist who researches how the brain works and how we learn. In
this extract from the opening chapter of his book, he describes how our minds work
at different speeds and adapt to what we are doing.
The Speed of Thought
Turtle buries its thoughts, like its eggs, in the sand, and
allows the sun to hatch the little ones. Look at the old fable of
the tortoise and the hare, and decide for yourself whether or not
you would like to align with Turtle.
Native American Medicine Cards
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There is an old Polish saying, ‘Sleep faster; we need the pillows’,
which reminds us that there are some activities which just will not be
rushed. They take the time that they take. If you are late for a meeting,
you can hurry. If the roast potatoes are slow to brown, you can turn
up the oven. But if you try to speed up the baking of meringues, they
burn. If you are impatient with the mayonnaise and add the oil too
quickly, it curdles. If you start tugging with frustration on a tangled
fishing line, the knot just becomes tighter.
The mind, too, works at different speeds. Some of its functions are
performed at lightning speed; others take seconds, minutes, hours,
days or even years to complete their course. Some can be speeded
up — we can become quicker at solving crossword puzzles or doing
mental arithmetic. But others cannot be rushed, and if they are, then
they will break down, like the mayonnaise, or get tangled up, like
the fishing line. ‘Think fast; we need the results’ may sometimes be
as absurd a notion, or at least as counterproductive, as the attempt
to cram a night’s rest into half the time. We learn, think and know
in a variety of different ways, and these modes of the mind operate
at different speeds, and are good for different mental jobs. ‘He who
hesitates is lost’, says one proverb. ‘Look before you leap’, says another.
And both are true.
Roughly speaking, the mind possesses three different processing
speeds. The first is faster than thought. Some situations demand an
unselfconscious, instantaneous reaction. When my motor-bike skidded
on a wet manhole cover in London some years ago, my brain and my
body immediately choreographed for me an intricate and effective
set of movements that enabled me to keep my seat — and it was only
after the action was all over that my conscious mind and my emotions
started to catch up. Neither a concert pianist nor an Olympic fencer
has time to figure out what to do next. There is a kind of ‘intelligence’
that works more rapidly than thinking. This mode of fast, physical
intelligence could be called our ‘wits’.
B: 20th- and 21st-century Non-fiction and Literary Non-fiction
21st century: New Scientist – ‘Short attention span’, 2014
This article from New Scientist by Catherine de Lange reviews a book written about
the brain and how it works, 30-Second Brain.
Short attention span
Tackling the mysteries of the brain in bite-sized morsels is a big ask
30-Second Brain: The 50 Most Mind-Blowing Ideas in Neuroscience, Each
Explained in Half a Minute, edited by Anil Seth, Icon Books, £14.99
Catherine de Lange
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The brain is a hungry organ: it makes up just 2 per cent of your body weight,
but devours 20 per cent of your energy intake. With this in mind, is it possible to
think yourself thin?
This is one of the questions posed in 30-Second Brain, edited by neuroscientist
Anil Seth from the University of Sussex in Brighton, UK. Although each
explanation takes just 30 seconds to read, such is the breadth of information that
this book could be good exercise for anyone wanting to burn serious calories
with their brains.
The whistle-stop tour covers 50 pivotal themes in the development of our
knowledge of the brain. These range from its anatomical structure — down
to nerve cells and the neurotransmitters that convey messages between them,
through the theories and techniques that underpin our current understanding
of the brain. Then we move on to juicier aspects to do with the brain in action:
perception, for instance, and that elusive state, consciousness.
It’s a lot to tackle. Can a reductionist approach to such a complex subject
ever do it justice? The book has the same format as others in Icon’s 30-Second
series, covering each topic in 300 words. Then there are the even more concise
“3-second” summaries for a really quick hit, and “3-minute” sections that ask
wider questions.
The contributors – all scientists or science writers – certainly do an admirable
job of covering this complex subject in easily digestible chunks. To sum up
metacognition in a few hundred words is no mean feat.
However, the format soon becomes tiresome and repetitive. The subtitle
remains the same on each page, for instance, which feels like a waste of space
that could have been used to add a layer of information or intrigue. The graphics
are far from “mind-bending”, as promised on the back cover. And drastically
distilling the content leaves little in the way of wonder about the incredible
organ that makes us human, and individual. The result is a kind of textbook lite.
For those who want a well-written overview of a fast-developing topic, the
book will provide food for thought. But for many readers of this magazine, these
bite-sized morsels may feel unsatisfying.
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B: 20th- and 21st-century Non-fiction and Literary Non-fiction
7Challenges
20th century: Jean-Dominique Bauby – The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly, 1997
The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly is an autobiography by the French scientist, JeanDominique Bauby, who had a stroke and suffered from ‘locked-in syndrome’. In this
extract, he describes how he learnt about his condition.
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Prologue
hrough the frayed curtain at my window a wan glow announces the break of
day. My heels hurt, my head weighs a ton, and something like a giant invisible
diving-bell holds my whole body prisoner. My room emerges slowly from the gloom.
I linger over every item: photos of loved ones, my children’s drawings, posters, the
little tin cyclist sent by a friend the day before the Paris–Roubaix bike race, and
the IV pole over-hanging the bed where I have been confined these past six months
like a hermit crab dug into his rock.
No need to wonder very long where I am, or to recall that the life I once knew was
snuffed out on Friday, 8 December, last year.
Up until then I had never even heard of the brain-stem. I’ve since learned that it
is an essential component of our internal computer, the inseparable link between the
brain and the spinal cord. I was brutally introduced to this vital piece of anatomy
when a cerebro-vascular accident put my brain-stem out of action. In the past it
was known as a ‘massive stroke’, and you simply died. But improved resuscitation
techniques have now prolonged and refined the agony. You survive, but you survive
with what is so aptly known as ‘locked-in syndrome’. Paralysed from head to toe,
the patient, his mind intact, is imprisoned inside his own body, but unable to speak
or move. In my case, blinking my left eyelid is my only means of communication.
Of course the sufferer is the last to hear the good news. I myself had twenty days of
deep coma and several weeks of grogginess and somnolence before I fully appreciated
the extent of the damage. I did not fully awake until the end of January. When I
finally surfaced, I was in Room 119 of the Naval Hospital at Berck-sur-Mer on the
French Channel coast — the same Room 119, infused now with the first light of day.
An ordinary day. At seven the chapel bells begin again to punctuate the passage
of time, quarter-hour by quarter-hour. After their night’s respite, my congested
bronchial tubes once more begin their noisy rattle. My hands, lying curled on the yellow
sheets, are hurting, although I can’t tell if they are burning hot or ice cold. To fight
off stiffness I instinctively stretch, my arms and legs moving o n l y a fraction of an
inch. It is often enough to bring relief to a painful limb.
My cocoon becomes less oppressive, and my mind takes flight like a butterfly. There
is so much to do. You can wander off in space or in time, set out for Tierra del Fuego
or for King Midas’s court.
Glossary
wan pale, without colour
cerebro-vascular associated with the blood vessels inside the brain
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B: 20th- and 21st-century Non-fiction and Literary Non-fiction
21st century: Roy Lilley – Dealing with Difficult People, 2002
Roy Lilley is a health policy analyst and an author. His book, Dealing with Difficult
People, was written to give advice to managers. In this extract from the opening
chapter, he explains how to understand people and why they act the way they do.
A short course in human relations
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This book is all about dealing with difficult people. Get it? Not difficult situations or difficult
issues. It’s the people we are focusing on. Certainly difficult people will give you a bad time,
horrible situations and awkward issues to overcome. However, at the centre of it all are the
people. By understanding the people, how they tick, what they think and why they act like
they do, we can avoid the bad times and horrible situations, and overcome the awkward
issues.
The
The
The
The
The
The
six most important words:
five most important words:
four most important words:
three most important words:
two most important words:
one most important word:
The least important word:
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‘I admit I made a mistake.’
‘You did a good job.’
‘What is your opinion?’
‘Would you mind?’
‘Thank you.’
‘We.’
‘I.’
If we plant some seeds and the flowers don’t bloom — it’s no good blaming the flower.
It may be the soil, the fertiliser, not enough water? Who knows? We just find out what
the problem is and fix it.
If we have difficulties with our families, the people we work with or our friends, what’s
the point of blaming them? Figure out the reason and then fix it.
Difficult, who me?
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Yes, you! Before you can think about dealing with difficult people let’s start with you. Are
you difficult? Are you the one out of step? Are you the one with the problem?
Here’s some bad news for you: nice people are not always like you! Yes, yes, I know
the world would be a much simpler place if everyone was like you, but they’re not. They
will have different backgrounds, different education, different perspectives and different
ambitions. They will be motivated differently and think differently. And they can still be
nice people!
Really difficult people are most likely to be selfish
and inwardly focused. They won’t give a toss about
you. For them, it’s all about them. So, don’t let them
get under your skin.
So the number one rule in dealing with difficult people is:
Don’t take it personally!
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B: 20th- and 21st-century Non-fiction and Literary Non-fiction
8Tradition
20th century: J. R. R. Tolkien – letter to his sons, 1925
This is a letter written in 1925 by Lord of the Rings author J. R. R. Tolkien. He is writing
to his sons and pretending that he is Father Christmas.
Cliff House
Top of the World
Near the North Pole
Xmas 1925
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My dear boys,
I am dreadfully busy this year — it makes my hand more shaky
than ever when I think of it — and not very rich. In fact, awful
things have been happening, and some of the presents have got
spoilt and I haven’t got the North Polar Bear to help me and I have
had to move house just before Christmas, so you can imagine
what a state everything is in, and you will see why I have a new
address, and why I can only write one letter between you both.
It all happened like this: one very windy day last November my
hood blew off and went and stuck on the top of the North Pole.
I told him not to, but the N.P.Bear climbed up to the thin top to
get it down — and he did. The pole broke in the middle and fell
on the roof of my house, and the N.P.Bear fell through the hole it
made into the dining room with my hood over his nose, and all
the snow fell off the roof into the house and melted and put out
all the fires and ran down into the cellars where I was collecting
this year’s presents, and the N.P.Bear’s leg got broken. He is well
again now, but I was so cross with him that he says he won’t try
to help me again. I expect his temper is hurt, and will be mended
by next Christmas. I send you a picture of the accident, and of
my new house on the cliffs above the N.P. (with beautiful cellars
in the cliffs). If John can’t read my old shaky writing (1925 years
old) he must get his father to. When is Michael going to learn to
read, and write his own letters to me? Lots of love to you both and
Christopher, whose name is rather like mine.
That’s all. Goodbye.
Father Christmas
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B: 20th- and 21st-century Non-fiction and Literary Non-fiction
21st century: The Telegraph – ‘The battle to own Father Christmas’, 2013
This long article was written by Harry Wallop for The Daily Telegraph. In the article,
he discusses how the image of Father Christmas has changed over the years and where
the idea of Father Christmas comes from.
The battle to own
Father Christmas
Germany is seeking to put its traditional figure on a Unesco cultural
heritage list. But it’s not as simple as that
Harry Wallop
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T
his being Christmas and the season
of quizzes, here’s a question to mull
over: what links pawnbrokers, Coca-Cola
and child-snatching? The answer is Father
5 Christmas. Or should that be Santa Claus?
Or Sinterklaas? Or Saint Nicholas?
The row over the origins of this largebellied, chimney-clambering man are
almost as much a constant of the season
10 as turkey. But the disagreement has been
taken to another level this week: the
United Nations.
A German museum has applied for
Father Christmas, in his specifically
15 German form, to be added to the official
Unesco list of 250 items that make up our
“Intangible Cultural Heritage”.
Unesco’s list of world heritage sites
is fairly well known and includes such
20 blockbusters as Stonehenge, the Taj Mahal
and the Grand Canyon. But its sister list
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of intangible monuments is a little more
difficult to pin down.
Backed by an annual budget of $8
million, the list recognises cultural
traditions that are either at risk of
disappearing, or are merely important
to certain communities. Many are
local festivals, songs or dances. To give
a flavour, here are some of the most
recent additions to the list: the Paach
corn veneration ritual celebrated in
Guatemala; the Empaako child-naming
system practised by the Batooro,
Banyoro, Batuku, Batagwenda and
Banyabindi tribes of west Uganda; and the
“Mediterranean diet” of Portugal, Italy,
Spain, Greece and Morocco (surely more
tangible than intangible).
Neither the United Kingdom nor the
United States has signed up to this Unesco
convention. The campaign for jellied eels
and Morris dancing will have to wait
another day.
Felicitas Höptner, a director at the
Deutsches Weihnachtsmuseum – German
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Christmas Museum – in the Bavarian city
of Rothenburg, thinks that the German
origins of Father Christmas are under
threat. She says he is not the rollicking,
red-coated fat man of countless Hollywood
films and adverts; and certainly not the
pathetic versions, dressed in Poundland
suits and stick-on beards, who upset
children at last weekend’s Milton Keynes
winter wonderland.
“The real Weihnachtsmann, the German
Father Christmas, is wearing a big coat
with a hood – but not necessarily red, it
could be yellow, green or brown,” she says.
“He is usually holding a Christmas tree
with candles and, importantly, he is not
always smiling, he is often very serious.
And he is allowed to punish children as
well as give them gifts.”
She has competition on her hands.
A rival application to make the Dutch
festival of Saint Nicholas on December 6 a
part of the intangible cultural heritage has
already been lodged, by the Saint Nicholas
Society of the Netherlands.
Lucia Iglesias from Unesco points
out that both bids can be successful; the
organisation does not make any judgments
about which is better or more historic. “It
is not a beauty contest,” she says. But the
rival bids underline the slipperiness of so
many folk traditions, especially those that
fuse Christian saints with pagan rituals.
There have been midwinter festivals
since the dawn of time, many of them
raucous celebrations of darkness being
conquered and the imminent return of
spring. The Romans celebrated Saturnalia
during the third week of December, with
evergreens being brought into homes and
gifts exchanged. The Norse custom of Yule
– putting aside the copious blood-letting –
lent many features to Christmas. As the
centuries pass, vague paternalistic figures
who act as master of ceremonies emerge.
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And by the 1650s in England the figure
of Old Father Christmas, bearded with
a fur cap, appears in royalist pamphlets,
harking back to the pre-Puritan days of
feasting and good cheer.
None of these figures is the Father
Christmas we now know. He only arrived
– as with nearly all aspects of modern
Christmas – in the relatively short period
of time between 1820 and 1850, when
Prince Albert brought many German
rituals to the English court and when
Dickens was in his prime.
But to attribute the bearded, gift-giving
figure to one particular country or specific
culture would be a mistake. “Father
Christmas and Santa Claus are clearly one
and the same thing,” says Mark Connelly,
a historian at the University of Kent at
Canterbury and author of Christmas: A
Social History. “Father Christmas comes
from the same north European tradition of
Saint Nicholas; it’s just that Saint Nicholas
never really arrived in England.”
Legend has it that Saint Nicholas, the
fourth-century bishop of Myra (in modernday Turkey), rescued three boys whom a
wicked innkeeper had cast into a brinebutt to sell as pickled pork. This explains
why he is the patron saint of children.
He also threw three bags of gold down a
chimney to help an old man who had been
forced to sell his three daughters into
prostitution – the three bags now being the
international sign for pawnbrokers (why it
isn’t the sign for brothels is a mystery lost
in time).
His saint’s day – associated with high
jinks and a child being elected a bishop
– was celebrated in England until it was
outlawed by Henry VIII, a few years before
the king decided that all Catholic rituals
should be abolished.
However, St Nicholas’s Day flourished
in Protestant Germany and particularly
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in the Netherlands, where children on
the evening of December 5 would put out
shoes by the fire for him to place gifts
into. Sinterklaas, as he is known there,
is accompanied by his black-faced servant
Black Peter, who punishes or even kidnaps
bad children.
“Black Peters are all part of a childsnatching tradition that is very big in
northern Europe,” Connelly says. “It fits
into the Pied Piper tale, stories about
gypsies; parents use these stories of
reward and punishment to bring about
obedience but also to act out their own
fears through their children.”
The Dutch application to Unesco, rather
optimistically, tries to explain that the
reason Saint Nicholas’s companion is
black-faced is because of the soot from the
chimney.
When Dutch settlers took Sinterklaas
across the Atlantic with them, he soon
became Santa Claus. And
it was in America in 1822 that Clement
C Moore, a New York minister, wrote
The Visit of St Nicholas or, as it is more
commonly known, The Night Before
Christmas, which sets in stone various
key aspects: reindeers called Vixen and
Prancer, a sleigh, a sack of toys and a rosycheeked, whitebearded and roundbellied
man.
But the colour of his coat is not
described. Twenty-one years later, when
Dickens published A Christmas Carol,
the illustration of the ghost of Christmas
Present was a great bear of a smiling
figure, wearing a fur-trimmed green coat.
The first definitive red-suited fat
man was drawn by the German-born
American Thomas Nast, illustrating the
poem in 1881 in Harper’s Weekly. This is
indisputably a modern Santa or Father
Christmas, with gifts under his arm and a
pipe in his mouth.
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“Colour printing was still expensive
in the 1880s, but it was starting to be
used in magazines and advertising,”
Connelly says. “And pillar-box, fire-engine
red is far more arresting than green. It
was just wonderfully serendipitous that
the livery of Coca-Cola is the same shade
of red.”
When the fizzy drinks manufacturer
used a similar figure to Nast’s redsuited
Santa in a 1931 advert, “they gave it a
final, definitive kick up the backside. From
then on, Father Christmas was red and
white,” says Connelly.
Höptner says her bid is so important
because German children think
Coca-Cola’s Santa is the same as
Weihnachtsmann. “They are different.
And if we lose our different customs we
lose our culture,” she says.
But, as Connelly argues, to sneer at
the jolly American version while hailing
the Bavarian one is to “overstate the
differences between Anglo-Saxon and
American culture in the final years of
the 19th century. There is a real dialogue
across the Atlantic.” Santa informed
Father Christmas, and vice versa. They
are not that different. Santa may be more
sanitised, but that is true of so much postwar children’s culture.
And whether Höptner realises it or not,
decrying the commercialisation of Father
Christmas is as much of a festive tradition
as arguing over the origins of Father
Christmas.
George Bernard Shaw, 120 years ago,
wrote: “Christmas is forced on a reluctant
and disgusted nation by the shopkeepers
and the press: on its own merits it would
wither and shrivel in the fiery breath of
universal hatred; and anyone who looked
back to it would be turned into a pillar of
greasy sausages.”
And bah humbug to you, too.
43
Acknowledgements
We are grateful to the following for permission to reproduce copyright material:
Extract on pages 22–23 from The Invisible Man by H.G. Wells. Reprinted by permission of United
Agents on behalf of The Literary Executors of the Estate of H.G. Wells; Extract on page 24 “Letter:
September 20, 1972 To Nanny Vonnegut (his daughter)” from Kurt Vonnegut: Letters, edited by Dan
Wakefield, copyright © 2012 by The Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. Trust. Used by permission of Delacorte Press,
an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC. All rights reserved; Extract on page
25 from “Children are robbed of the right to education worldwide – but we can help”, The Guardian,
16/05/2014 (Julia Gillard), copyright © Guardian News & Media Ltd 2014; Quote on page 26 from
Tony Blair, Leader’s speech, Brighton 1997. Reproduced with permission of The Labour Party; Extract
on page 27 from Open by Andre Agassi, HarperCollins Publishers, copyright © 2010 Andre Agassi
and copyright © 2009 by AKA Publishing, LLC. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers
Ltd and Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Random
House LLC. All rights reserved; Extract on page 28 from Notes from a Small Island by Bill Bryson,
Black Swan, 1996. Reprinted by permission of The Random House Group Limited and the author;
Extract on page 29 from “Hearts beat Aswan” by Lee Osborne, Tatler Travel Supplement, January
2012. Reproduced with kind permission of Lee Osborne; Extract on page 30 from Touching the Void
by Joe Simpson, Vintage, 1988, p.18, copyright © Joe Simpson. Touching the Void is available on
Kindle and from other ebook stores; Extract on pages 31–33 adapted from “Nemesis Sub Terra: Are
you feeling scared yet?” The Independent, 09/07/2012 (Simon Calder), copyright © The Independent,
www.independent.co.uk; Extract on page 34 from An Evil Cradling by Brian Keenan, Vintage, 1993,
pp.66–67. Reprinted by permission of The Random House Group Limited and Elaine Steel; Extract on
page 35 from “Can we live without modern technology?” The Times, 05/10/2013 (Robert Crampton)
copyright © News Syndication; Extract on page 36 from Hare Brain, Tortoise Mind by Guy Claxton,
HarperCollins Publishers, copyright © 1997 Guy Claxton. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins
Publishers Ltd; Extract on page 37 from “Short attention span”, New Scientist, Issue 2963, p.49,
2014 (Catherine de Lange), copyright © 2014, Reed Business Information – UK. All rights reserved.
Distributed by Tribune Content Agency; Extract on page 38 from The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly:
A Memoir of Life in Death by Jean-Dominique Bauby, HarperCollins Publishers, copyright © 2008
Jean-Dominique Bauby; translation copyright © 1997 by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House
LLC. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd and Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of the
Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC. All rights reserved; Extract
on page 39 from Dealing with Difficult People Revised Edition by Rod Lilley, Kogan Page, pp.1–2,
copyright © 2013, CCC Republication Reproduced by permission of Kogan Page; Extract on page 40
from Letters from Father Christmas by J.R.R. Tolkien, HarperCollins Publishers, copyright © The J R R
Tolkien Estate Limited 1976. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd; and Extract on
pages 41–43 adapted from “21st century Battle to own Father Christmas”, The Telegraph, 16/12/2013
(Harry Wallop), copyright © Telegraph Media Group Limited.
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appreciate any information that would enable us to do so.
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